Anchor
by Mug of Doodles
Summary: Lush crew fluff, 'nuff said. AngeAubs, obviously.


**This...is so dorky. They belong together, I swear. Aubrey's so lucky. (This is set sometime before or during the second game, hurr durr).  
>Disclaimer:I do not own Aubrey and Angel, they belong to Harmonix.<strong>

The couple stared up at an inky night, shining bits of silver peppering the sky. Sounds nearly lulled them to sleep, the gentle waves slapping against the hull of the yacht relaxed them and their synchronized breathing drew them closer together. Pesky seagulls and other seabirds were no longer an annoyance, having ceased hunting, they were now nesting quietly, tucked underneath piers and in the crevices of buoys. Winds picked up, an expected chill washing over the two, raising goose bumps along a pair of bare legs, even under the protection of a blanket.

Tanned hands pulled the shivering form closer, face burying in auburn locks, inhaling deeply, the scent now permanently imbedded in his mind.  
>"Gonna catch a cold, mi princesa," the Hispanic stated softly, almost mumbling because the air was too crisp, feeling almost as if speaking would shatter their fragile calm.<br>"I _never_ get sick, hun. You know that," the other stated matter-of-factly, though in a sincere tone with a carefully withdrawn sense of venom. He let out a deep chuckle and it vibrated within his chest, her thin frame absorbed it and small tremors shook her again but not from the chill of the weather.

He _knew_. He knew she caught the cold, very often in fact. Most likely due to her shorts, but she was an adamant fashionista and he decided to let her biased opinions slide for now.

They were content at this moment, having found peace in simply _being_. Aubrey was seated in his lap, pressed flush against him with a blanket shielding them from the chilling winds of summer's end. A loving hand stroked thoughtfully at a pale thigh, marveling at the softness of it all, but never trailing any higher than permitted.

Angel could wait.

He placed a sweet-tempered kiss to her temple, "Happy Birthday. How old are you now?"  
>The question floated through the air, twirling about like a teasing ribbon comprised of words.<p>

He could wait for her, but he still needed his fun.

Glossed lips formed a pout, "A lady never reveals her true age."  
>His grin broadened and he shuffled around under the blanket, wrapping it over them again, "Age is just a number."<br>Her voice seemed to crack at intervals, though she wasn't entirely shrieking, "I would love for you to confirm that when I have _wrinkles_!" She spat the final word out as if saying it were blasphemy scorching her tongue.

Angel shifted his long-time girlfriend around and rolled his eyes playfully, he was accustomed to her overdramatic antics and smiled patiently, "I'd still love you."

Her face was still turned away, her wall standing tall and proud once more—waiting for Angel to break down her defenses again. The Latino understood; he understood it all. The poor girl was too afraid to fall, fearing she'd have only the hard ground to catch her. He wouldn't blame her. The young diva was raised in a broken home—her precious 'Daddy' always excessively spoiling her and she toiled away in material goods while never knowing the love of proper parents—parents like the ones Angel loved.

Once, _just once_, on a ski trip Aubrey ushered him to take with her, while they were still 'just friends', she opened up to him by saying, "I hope it isn't true that girls marry their fathers." After this abrupt and brief confession of bottled-up emotions she tucked her nose away in her issue of Vogue and pretended nothing ever happened, silently wiping away streaks of mascara.

A chord snapped in his chest that day and his heart fell hard for her.

An affectionate smile graced his lips he remembered back to when he first realized how he truly felt about her and his many failed attempts at wooing her. Everyone knew Angel was a closet sweetie and his faux bad-boy charms never quite worked any magic on her, only ever pushing her away.

_'You may be smooth and sweet, but you're a stupid boy not chocolate.'_

Never entirely sure what she meant because 'Aubrey-isms', as he dubbed them, were often odd and complicated he shrugged off the half-assed insult. What he _was_ able to decipher was_ 'Hey, this chick isn't easy._'

Angel _loved_ a challenge.

"Yes?" she snapped, poised properly upright again with Angel serving as her pedestal. Candy apple fingernails clicked together in front of his face and the noise yanked him from his musings.  
>"I said, 'prove it'", she stated again, in that defiant manner she acquired over the years of heartache and resentment, slender arms folding over her chest.<p>

Angel inwardly groaned.

Women were so_ complicated_. How the _hell_ was he supposed to prove something that hadn't happened yet?

Then honey orbs met steel-greys and there was an emotion peeking out, suddenly recoiling in indescribable fear, yet ready to burst out from just beneath the surface.  
>Angel wanted to say <em>he<em> caught her but he wasn't entirely sure who caught whose heart first.

"I'm not your father." _That_ was his proof, at least all he could muster.  
>A slight gasp escaped her pink lips and she seemed taken aback, leaving Angel to confirm that his answer was, in fact, the most idiotic and unromantic thing he ever dared to utter. Her eyes confused him, however, her intense charcoals fierce with an unbridled energy he couldn't name until wetness rimmed long eyelashes.<p>

Perhaps, he shouldn't have spoken at all.  
>Perhaps, he upset her.<p>

Readying himself for a stinging slap, jaws tightened, and eyes steady, he was surprised when none came.

More than surprised when a slender arm gingerly reached up to cup his cheek, rosy lips brushing against his, leaving sticky sweet residue behind. Her complexion seemed to glow underneath the moonlight, as pale as she was. Her skin was nearly alabaster and the Hispanic found himself needing to taste her again. All his senses were focused on Aubrey and he let that slide too, knowing full well how much she loved attention. She moved in again and this time he tangled his right hand in her hair, relishing the way thick curls tangled like silken vines. His left hand drew her closer, if even possible.

Moving the rest of the way in, he firmly planted his lips to hers, both sets moving in perfect synch. A coy tongue poked at his lips and he parted, nearly moaning from the taste of her flavored gloss mingling between their light pants and swirling tongues. Gingerly shifting her, he coaxed her to lie underneath him and he loomed over her, his hips between her knees while strong arms held him steady on either side of her head.

"Angie." She was breathless, voice hovering somewhere between bliss and bordering on a warning. Eyes silently saying,_ 'Don't take this too far.'_  
>He wouldn't do anything she didn't like, just make the redhead want him more.<br>He loved her most when she was on the verge of slipping, nearly losing control of her pent-up emotions and obligations. She was so _stubborn_, he accepted this even if the other crews never quite did.

Eager lips descended to her perfumed neck, lilac beckoning him closer until a manicured hand pushed his shoulders back.  
>"You okay?" he asked, afraid he somehow stepped out of line.<br>"Thank you."  
>A brown brow arched curiously, "For what?"<br>"You're the only one to remember." She replied, referring to her birthday. She jangled the gold bracelet he bought for her for emphasis, enjoying the weight of the anchor on her wrist.

"I didn't think you'd like it," he answered honestly. She went wide-eyed for a moment, as if saying,_ 'How dare you insult my tastes by inferring that I'd reject such a **fabulous** piece such as this'!  
><em>His hand curled over hers, kissing her wrist warmly he enjoyed how her floral perfume tickled his senses. He relaxed into her, arms still supporting most of his body.

He was aware that Aubrey didn't know exactly _why_ he bought her an anchor, of all things. Their new scene, their image for their newly formed crew, played little to no part in his gift idea. A plethora of reasons clogged his mind when he brought up the subject in his mind. He concluded an anchor because lips first met at Pier 29 when Angel dragged her along to take a look at his roots. She wasn't too comfortable strolling around in the slums but she _trusted_ him enough to do so and that was enough for him. He chose an anchor because, as horribly cliche as it was, she was the only one weighing him down, preventing him from floating over into a thousand other beds.

Pearly-whites slowly revealed themselves, "Glad you like it."

"I love it," she gasped out when he placed a nip to her collarbone. He smiled against her skin, lacing their fingers together in acknowledgement.  
>An <em>"I love you,"<em> slipped out and Angel froze, unsure if he heard her correctly. He was afraid for a moment, afraid that if he moved or spoke, or let their eyes meet that she would run away again, back into the comfort of her glittered shell.

He found his courage again and this virtue shoved a question from his mind that he purposely withheld, "Will you marry me?"  
>A beautiful emotion flashed in her eyes and he braced himself for a slew of gushing 'Aubrey-isms', but she simply nodded happily with a silent yes.<p>

Another sweet kiss sealed the deal and she spoke with a sick satisfaction, "Daddy will be _so_ displeased."  
>Angel couldn't fight the bitter laughter bubbling from his throat, "The bastard's never happy with us."<p> 


End file.
